


Cracking Eggs

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-04
Updated: 2008-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:29:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda for "Jus in Bello."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracking Eggs

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Birthday fic for [](http://marinarusalka.livejournal.com/profile)[**marinarusalka**](http://marinarusalka.livejournal.com/) and for the "Victor Lives" challenge at [](http://copsandhunters.livejournal.com/profile)[**copsandhunters**](http://copsandhunters.livejournal.com/). I've borrowed some of my own fanon about Victor from another story for use in this. Many thanks to [](http://minim-calibre.livejournal.com/profile)[**minim_calibre**](http://minim-calibre.livejournal.com/) for her sharp beta skills.

  
_Thump-click_

 _Thump-click_

 _Thump-click_

At first he thinks the noise is in his head, which hurts like a goddamned pile driver's going at it, so no wonder it would pound that way. Not that Victor's complaining. If his head hurts that much, he must be alive, which might be a miracle since the last thing he remembers is the agony shooting through his joints, down to the bone, the police station going red as his vision hazed with pain.

 _Thump-click_

The sound sharpens and his head gets its act together enough to realize that no, it's probably not inside his brain, but outside of it. If he can hear, he must be alive.

Although, based on the little thought he's ever given to an afterlife, Victor thinks his hearing would probably still work in heaven or the other place, so the _thump-click_ isn't conclusive evidence; he could still be alive or dead.

Every Sunday he'd gone to church with Gramps, out of duty, out of respect, and he'd believed because he felt it was his job to believe. It was expected, part of being a good boy along with studying hard and keeping his nose out of trouble.

So he hasn't thought about the afterlife much.

He thinks about it now.

His body hurts, shit, it hurts. That's a check-mark in the "probably alive" column, which still has fewer check-marks than the "probably dead" column.

 _Thump-click_

He opens his eyes and sees a little girl.

It's the child from the police station. She's seated cross-legged a few yards away from him, the pink wool coat and gray skirt gently washed-out. Everything about her seems pale. Well-cared for, but faded.

She fixes Victor with a stare, light blue eyes calm and measuring.

 _Thump-click_

The super ball -- vivid red, standing out sharply in the dim light -- bounces, and her small hand snaps out, scoops up two of the jacks that lie scattered on the dirty, cracked linoleum.

She does it again, scoops up three jacks this time, then four, hand moving with sharp speed, her eyes on him, not the game; and she never misses, never misses the ball, never fails to scoop up just the right number.

"Hello," she says.

Victor pushes himself up and groans. Shit, _shit_ that hurts. He looks down but can't find any blood; there doesn't seem to be a mark on him.

"Lilith, right?" he says, his voice rasping.

She nods and the jacks scatter, skittering across the floor.

Now he notices the woman, silent with dark hair, standing in the shadows in the corner of the room. Lilith's caretaker, no, _attendant_ , Victor thinks. Her face is a blank, absent of either adoration or fear when she looks at the little girl. Mostly she stares ahead and _waits_.

Lilith picks up jacks again, letting the ball bounce twice each time, not too high, quick and precise, her hands flashing.

 _Thump-thump-click_

He manages to get to his feet and has to put out his hand to touch the peeling paint of the wall when his legs won't hold him. His head spins, and he closes his eyes, waiting for it to settle.

When it does, he opens his eyes and takes an assessment. The room is large, windows covered with battered wooden slats, the floor tiles a checkerboard of red and black. A blackboard cracked with age covers one wall. Place was a school once upon a time, before neglect devoured it. There's no way the fluorescent lights should be working, or the fixtures still even be in place, but they are, although they burn a little too bright for fluorescence. They periodically flicker a weird-ass shade of yellow that makes him think of amber.

He's not at all surprised that his gun is gone.

With the metal jacks sharp against her open palm, the girl looks up at him. "Do you want to play?"

"No, thanks. Not my game."

Shrugging, she tucks the jacks into the pocket of her coat, then gathers up the rest scattered on the floor, and puts the ball away too. Neat and orderly, a well-brought up little girl.

"Perhaps later," she says, with a tiny little smile that promises nothing good for the universe.

It's too much to stay on his feet, so Victor slides down with his back against the wall. He sits with his knees bent, staring at her, remembering those pale eyes going milky white.

"You're a demon," he says.

"Yes."

"Why..." He wants to ask, _why aren't I dead_.

Before the words get out of his mouth, she speaks. "Because I have a use for you."

"Yeah, I'm a useful guy." His heart's racing. There wasn't anything at Quantico that could've prepped him for this. Now he's kind of sorry he laughed along with the others over the stories of some crazy agent in a basement office with a head full of conspiracy theories, before Victor's time. "Only me? Anyone else useful?"

He'd promised her. He'd _promised_ , and Victor Henriksen kept his promises.

The child tilts her head to one side, still sitting cross-legged, her stockings a pristine white. She's wearing burgundy Mary Janes. Seeing her so terrifyingly sweet and calm against the backdrop of grime and neglect in the room is surreal, but Victor hasn't decided if that's the weirdest thing he's seen in the last twenty-four hours.

Or is that forty-eight? Or seventy-two? Cold sweat breaks out over the back of his neck; he has no idea what day it is or how long it's been since he blacked out in the police station.

"Maybe."

"Why?" Victor rubs his hands over his face, trying to stop the crazy spinning of his head. "Why am I useful?"

Lilith raises her hand. "I need foot soldiers."

There's a vent, high on the inside wall, and Victor hasn't really thought of it was important. But now a thin, billowing stream of black smoke pours through it and heads right for him --

No, not again. No, Jesus Christ, _no_.

He tastes it against his mouth, charred and foul, before the smoke pulls back like a startled snake.

Victor laughs, remembering. "Yeah. Yeah, that's right, you fucker. You just try it."

God bless the Winchesters and their crazy trinkets.

The black smoke pours away from him with a low howling shriek, but as Lilith raises her hand it stops, hovering above her head as if suspended in time. Lilith turns with a petulant air, looking at her attendant, and the woman moves forward instantly, walks briskly towards Victor with her heels clicking on the floor.

He scrambles sideways, out of her reach, but she follows, and her hands go for his neck with brutal swiftness. As her fingers close around the charm, there's a sizzling noise and smoke rises from her hands. She screams, a cry of outrage and pain, but tries again, fumbling for the ribbon that holds the charm, tugging at it. A fresh sizzle and more smoke is all she gets for her trouble. She stumbles back, whimpering.

It doesn't take the woman long to regain composure. She stands silent, burnt hands knitted together as Lilith snaps her head around towards Victor. Her mouth tightens, revealing her frustration, but only for a moment before she sighs.

"That's all right. We'll find a way in. And if we can't, I'll kill you."

There's no anger in her voice, no venom. It makes his stomach clench.

Lilith gets to her feet and holds out her hand. The dark-haired woman takes it, and they leave him, their shoes tapping on the dirty floor. The door slams shut after them and he hears the click of a key in the lock.

He struggles to his feet, bangs against the glass in the door until his elbows and his fists start to bleed. He tries to kick it open but only ends up injuring himself.

 _Can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs,_ Gramps used to say.

He tears off part of his shirt, rips the cloth into strips and wraps his bloodied hands and goes to work on the boards over the windows next.

There's no way to tell if it's day or night out there; or if there even is any _out there_. Maybe the whole world's turned into this abandoned facility, the sun made of fluorescence.

His head starts spinning again, and funny, how things occur to you -- in addition to having no idea how many days have gone by, that also means he has no idea how long since he's eaten or had any water. Victor sits down with his back against the wall again, and rests. There's a broken globe in the corner, so darkened with grime it's hard to make out the shape of the continents. He's pretty sure the names of some of the European countries and the extent of their boundaries will be outdated.

They won't let him die of starvation or thirst, most likely. Well, not yet; Lilith had said they'd try first. He has some time. Whatever the charm's mojo, it apparently extends along the length of whatever holds it in place. Maybe, possibly, he hopes, when they came back they won't be able to cut it with a knife or scissors.

Break's over. Victor goes about his work more carefully now, conserving his energy, studying the nails that hold the boards in place. He walks the perimeter of the room, looking for some discarded piece of the past he can use to pry away the boards. Then he returns to the door and stares at the hinges, wondering if he can dismantle them without tools. Maybe he can use the globe, or his shoes.

First thing he'll do when he gets out of this damned room is find Nancy.

If they survive, if Lilith doesn't finally get fed up and end their lives with a little girl hissy fit snap of her finger, first thing he'll do when they get out of wherever this is, even before they've eaten or slept --

He's going to find a tattoo parlor.

~end  



End file.
